It's The Principal of The Thing
by OnceTwiceTimeThing
Summary: Mrs. Krabappel's friendship with Smithers becomes strained when she accomplishes something he could never do. EdnaxSkinner possible BurnsxSmithers something or other. Chapter titles totally not lifted directly from my record collection. Mmmm, nope nope.
1. Chapter 1: At Home He's a Tourist

**I can't really say I intend to make a name for myself on this site, I'm just blowing off some repressed shipper steam with this. There is not much Krabappel/Skinner appreciation on these interwebz, what the hell is the matter with you guys? Quality shippin', right there. Also, my headcannon is that Smithers and Edna are bros. Well, it's more of a pipe dream really. Is it me, or do they just not have any friends at all? I like to think they'd get along, seeing how their desires and experiences parallel. Anyhoodle, here's the first chapter of something that, in all likelihood, will never be finished. Enjoy.**

"This is going nowhere really. I haven't had a real date in months, and my most recent ended when I caught him stealing and eating birth control pills out of my purse. I think he was trying to kill himself, but I can't be sure exactly. All I know is that they hauled him back up to the funny farm where he belongs." Edna took a sip of her drink and glanced down at the floor, letting the sordid reality that was her love life sink in. After a brief moment of silence- aside from the usual background bar chatter- she looked back up at her conversational partner. "Gad, you're the only person I can talk to these days." She rested her cheek in her palm and propped her elbow up on the table.

Waylon uttered a small sound that carried no particular meaning other than "I hear you, and I sympathize." His eyes settled on the corner of the room, and he swirled his somewhat femme-y looking cocktail around in his glass. From the sourly tired look on his face, it was evident that he was consumed by both of their troubles.

In a town full of functional alcoholics, Edna wasn't sure what was more depressing: the fact that she could only manage to connect with one of them, or the fact that she was surprised when she discovered that there was another soul in Springfield who she could actually relate to.

All too reserved, Waylon's romantic exploits were easily as fruitless as her own, likely more so. He was gay, and he existed with one foot perpetually out of the closet, only poking his head out occasionally to see if his employer was looking, but of course he never was. He was also a binge drinker, only delving into supreme drunkenness when he was truly inconsolable. At any other given moment, he was generally controlled and responsible with his alcohol consumption. One could always tell when he was about to go off, not just by his behavior, but by his poison of choice. He never drank hard liquor unless he really wanted to get hammered; his casual drinks were almost always frilly queer drinks. Edna, on the other hand, had decided long ago to be drunk as often as possible, though she was taking her sweet time at the moment. She'd made a vow of decency this evening, for her friend's sake.

It was Thursday night. They always met for drinks on Thursday nights. It was a time they reserved together to clear the air and get their troubles out of their systems. They'd talk about their ex-spouses, work, previous boyfriends, poor choices, and all too often Mr. Burns as well. These regular meetings were gloomy, but they were also refreshing, and they kept that sort of lugubrious subject matter from seeping into their conversations outside of Moe's tavern. Why they met on Thursday nights specifically, and how they fell into such a narrow scope of conversational topics was anyone's guess. It just sort of fell into place that way.

The rest of the evening went as it usually would. Drinks were sipped and grievances were aired, for sanity's sake.

"Heating bills... could barely pay this month..." "She keeps calling the house but I just don't know what to say." "...found yet another tack on my desk chair this morning, but you wouldn't need Scotland Yard to figure out who..." "...but Mr. Burns wasn't having any of that, you know how headstrong he can be..." and so on. However, the end of the night eventually reared it nasty little head, and the more-or-less sober pair decided to call it quits.

"I really have to get back to it. Mr. Burns is working late tonight, so I have to drive back to the office and take him home," he said, glancing down at his wristwatch and tugging his jacket on.

"Yeah, I have some work ahead of me too. Those papers won't grade themselves."

Krabappel's tone was a little more strained than Waylon's. He practically skipped to work every day; Edna's career was more akin to a test of endurance than a personal passion.

Smithers looked up and adjusted his glasses as he spoke. "Do you need a lift? I pass your building on the way back to the plant; I might as well see you off."

Edna shrugged. "Might as well." She was a little tipsy anyways; walking home alone could be hazardous.

The drive was short lived and silent, save for some inaudible mumbles emitting from Waylon's radio. The volume was nearly muted.

After a few short minutes of navigation, the car came to a clean halt directly in front of Edna's apartment complex.

"Thanks for the ride. Same time same next week?" She closed the car door and peeked in through the unrolled car window, smiling for the first time all night. This was a welcome change, and it brightened her friend's mood a little.

"Actually, I'll be out of town for most of next week. I'm accompanying Mr. Burns on a business trip to Hong Kong. I'm free Monday though. Why don't we break up the routine and do something not quite so, ah..." he paused, searching briefly for the right turn of phrase, "...suicide-inspiring."

That particular sentence cap was one of those 'I'm-only-half-kidding' deals. Edna's sense of humor may have been rubbing off on him a bit.

She quirked her eyebrow slightly and folded her arms across the spot where the window had recently been rolled in. "Yeah? What did you have in mind?"

The man's smile grew ever so slightly, and he started to talk with his hands. "I'm glad you asked. There's an art gallery opening in Shelbyville; it looks pretty promising. _Pet Photography Through the Ages_."

An art show! Mrs. Krabbapel hadn't had a chance to enjoy something so intellectually stimulating as fine arts in ages, and while the usual nights of drinking herself silly or following Smithers into off-beat gay discotheques was always a fun pass-time, this offer was a much-welcome change.

She rose to her full height and offered a shrug and a little simper. "Well, it would be nice to shake things up a little. Come to think of it, I can't remember the last time I left town, even for a night."

Waylon beamed. With Mr. Burns's constant stream of demands always dogging his heels, he rarely got to go on outings of his own choosing.

"Pick you up at six?"

"Sounds fine to me."

"Great! See you then," he exclaimed, failing to contain his enthusiasm. It was heartening to see him bounce back from their morose evening so quickly.

After a few standard goodbyes, Edna retired to her apartment, and Smithers drove off, mood uplifted considerably.

His jovial disposition faded quickly, however, when he entered Mr. Burns's office.

_"Smithers!"_ he barked, pounding his fist down on the desk. "You're fifteen minutes late! What is the meaning of this delay?"

Waylon passed through the doorway and into the expansive and ever-hollow office, humbled by his boss's anger. The only source of light came from the overhead fixture in the hallway behind him and the desk lamp at Burn's side.

"I'm sorry sir, I had to-"

The decrepit mogul rose sharply from his chair and slapped his palms down on the counter top with force. "I don't want your tatty excuses! You've got a lot of nerve Smithers, barging into my office so late! I ought to dock your pay for this shortcoming."

"I'm sorry sir," he repeated. "I'll budget my time more carefully in the future." _'And possibly drink less.'_ He felt that he owed it to the other motorists out on the road to wait in the bar until his buzz wore off. This was the main reason for his tardiness.

"Hmmm, and perhaps next time you should spend more time keeping tabs on your watch and less time lollygagging with that- that- _flapper!"_

"Hu?" Smithers was confused momentarily before realizing just was his boss was getting at. "Oh, you mean Mrs. Krabappel." He didn't bother with reminding his boss that flappers had gone out of style over sixty years ago.

"Yes, that coquette you've been cavorting about with," he stepped out from behind his desk as he spoke, wagging his finger with emphasis. "Mark me Smithers, that woman is trouble. I wouldn't invest my emotions too seriously in that one."

Waylon rolled his eyes and let out a disgruntled sigh. "She's not a coquette sir, and we're not dating. Edna is my _friend."_

"Poppycock! Have you seen her skirt? Why, you can very nearly see her knees! Imagine!"

His assistant sighed and shook his head. No matter how lovely Smithers may have deemed his employer to be, his world-view was dauntingly antiquated, to say the very least. In fact, he received fervent complaints from angry feminists and other varying sorts social activists daily, and despite his own personal affiliation with the majority of those causes, Waylon shredded every one.

"Sir, that style of dress is perfectly acceptable in this day and age."

Mr. Burns grit his teeth together harshly. "Oh, I'm sure," he said in the most sarcastic tone he could manage. "What else are women wearing these days? Trousers? Do they wander freely in the streets without petticoats?"

Waylon would have laughed at his employer's stupefying obliviousness if it wasn't so disconcerting.

"But sir-"

"Pipe down!" he interrupted again. "I've had just about enough of your smart mouth Smithers. Bring me home immediately." He waved his hand dismissively and started towards the door. His assistant followed him obediently. "Yes sir."

Mr. Burns was silent for the entire drive home, and that meant that Smithers was silent as well. When dealing with Mr. Burns, one never spoke unless spoken to. That is, if the speakers knew what was good for them. Waylon really didn't mind. He was perfectly happy to follow whatever needless guidelines his boss insisted that he live by. There were a lot of Burns-isms, in fact, which he could easily overlook that would make any other living human consider both homicide and suicide simultaneously.

Smithers was at his beck and call 24/7, willing to lie to the authorities, stretch safety regulations, indirectly assist in murder, take down any legal team that tried to win its way into Monty's money, and even contradict a rather large percentage of his own core values in order to keep Mr. Burns happy.

His therapist seemed keen on the idea that he had a case of Stockholm syndrome, but he'd decided to ignore his doctor's constant urging for treatment. He didn't want to believe that the incredible passion he felt for his boss was caused by mental illness, psychological torture, emotional conditioning, or anything other than... well, he wasn't really sure what it was that kept him coming back to Burns's side so faithfully.

Was it the older man's winning personality?

Well, not exactly.

His affectionate attitude towards his fellow man?

That would be a big 'n-o.'

Boyish charm?

Ha! No.

Charismatic composure?

Not quite.

Dashing good looks?

Hmm. That had to be it.

Smithers looked up at his beloved C. Montgomery in the rear-view mirror.

His finely shaped spindle of a nose protruded from his angular face and curved to the pointed tip, it's jarring length only accentuating the size of his glowing bald head. His eye sockets cradled two beady peepers like two stoic infants in two fleshy bassinets, and a slight overbite peeped past his delicately thin upper lip. His rounded shoulders were perpetually arched and he- well... that wasn't it either.

Even Smithers had to admit that he really wasn't exactly Mr. Handsome. Come to think of it, the man had virtually zero positive traits. There was no explanation for why Waylon should feel this way about such a person. Maybe it was all the years of caring for him, tending to his every whim. Maybe it was because he'd seen a side of Mr. Burns that no one else could ever see. He saw him through times of despair and worry, happiness and anger, prosperity and bankruptcy, sickness and health...

At times, he felt as though they were married. Maybe that was it: a strong, almost spiritual bond bulked up over many years of spending their days side by side. They were emotionally conjoined on a deeper level, perhaps they were even soul mates.

...Or maybe it _was_ Stockholm syndrome. Perhaps they shared no such connection, and he had only been fooling himself for some twenty-five years now.

Even after he had returned his employer to the manor and prepared him for bed, the now somewhat distraught Waylon Smithers continued to ponder, but the only good answer he could really come up with to answer his self-addressed query was "just because." Being a man who's first instinct was always to rely on logic, he found these results frustrating. In spite of the contradiction, however, he had also become a sentimental man over the years, and he had promised himself long ago that he would never look into his doctor's diagnosis. He had been in love with Mr. Burns for over twenty years, and something as trivial as mental illness was a terrible reason to stop loving him, or so he had decided.


	2. Chapter 2: I Want the One I Can't Have

For Waylon, the next three days were dull. He spent all of Friday redirecting insubordinate workers, as he often had to on the last day of the week. The plant was primarily populated by idiots, and in all the excitement of Friday's arrival, many of them had forgotten that they were still required to do their jobs on this most holy of days. Even long after they had left, Smithers was still stuck cleaning up their messes because Mr. Burns was too stingy to hire a custodian. He didn't see very much of his boss at all that day, which made the work nearly unbearable.

He spent his Saturday tidying up his apartment and making arrangements for a house-sitter. Though he called several times, Edna never picked her phone up. His only other friend was John Waters, but their relationship was rocky to say the least. Besides, Waters had been out of town all week, and it was unclear as to when he'd be back.

Eventually, Waylon enlisted a young Miss Lisa Simpson to watch the house, but against his better judgment. From what he'd heard, she had the maturity levels of a kid twice her age, but an eight year old was still an eight year old, no matter how you looked at it. Even so, he was strapped for time and he had to take what he could get.

He spent Sunday morning packing his suitcases, and then he drove out to the manor and did the same thing for Mr. Burns, who wasted the majority of his day arguing with a prerecorded phone message from some political campaigners.

God, Monday could not come fast enough. Smithers had been looking forward to the museum trip since he planned for it, and the days that followed would be spent on what he'd convinced himself was a vacation with Mr. Burns in Hong Kong. He only had to get through the next few hours, and he'd be golden.

On returning home from work Monday evening, Waylon's apartment was not silent as usual, but echoing the sound of his answering machine blipping softly. That meant that someone had left him some voice mail. _'It must be about the house-sitting,'_ he thought, approaching the appliance and pressing the "play" button.

_"New message; 3:17 PM:"_ the contraption beeped and continued to speak, this time in Edna Krabappel's voice. _"Waylon, I'm really sorry but I have to cancel our plans for tonight. Something sort of unexpected came up, but I swear I'll fill you in and make it up to you later. Take care of yourself when you get to China, won't you? Don't let Burns keep too tight a leash on you. See you when you get back!" _Something in her tone was oddly up-beat, and it made him curious. Normally, the Edna he knew had a dull, sarcastic pinch to her voice that made it impossible to picture her without slouched shoulders or a cigarette in her right hand. With an odd air of caution, he picked up the phone and dialed. It rang twice before she answered.

_"Hello?"_

Everything sounded normal. "Edna? What happened? Is everything okay?"

_"Oh, Waylon, it's you,"_ she began with that same uncharacteristically bubbly tone of voice. _"Everything's fine."_

"Yes, but what happened? Why did you cancel? Your message was so vague." The ambiguous nature of her call, coupled with the cancellation of their outing, had left Smithers quite perturbed. Edna, on the other hand, only seemed to get giddier. Her voice took on a temporary swagger in her reply.

_"Well honey, it looks like I finally did something right for a change."_

"What do you mean?"

_"You wouldn't believe- I have a new boyfriend! And get this: he isn't a skeezebag or a mental patient! He's got a job that doesn't involve petty theft or pole dancing! I have a really good feeling about this one, Waylon. He's the full package."_

Smithers was floored. Ever since her divorce, Edna had been pining desperately for someone new to connect with, but lately she seemed to have given up on finding "Mr. Right" in exchange for "Mr. Right Now," which only left her lonelier than before. On hearing of such a lucky turn of events, Smithers immediately let go of his foul mood. It was nice to hear her so happy for a change.

"Edna, that's great! Hey, who's the lucky guy? Anyone I know?" Though Edna couldn't see it, her friend winked at no one and mimed nudging her in the ribs with his elbow, though he nearly overturned a potted houseplant in the process.

At his question, Mrs. Krabappel's tone sobered a bit, but not to such an extent that it took away from her excellent disposition. _"See, that's where it gets a little complicated. You might know him though. Ever met a guy named Seymour Skinner?"_

"Hmmmm..." Smithers tapped his chin, wracking his brain for a face to match the name. It certainly sounded familiar. Springfield was a fairly small town, and though he didn't socialize much, Waylon was at the very least acquainted with most of its residents.

Seymour Skinner... he knew he'd heard that somewhere... wait, weren't they in the same book club? Yes, that was it! He was a fairly tall man... yeah... staunch, a little awkward, always wore that ugly aqua colored suit _('I'm one to judge,'_ he thought, reminding himself of the ghastly mismatched number he wore to work every day.) What else? He was always going on about his mother... but there was something else. He'd heard Edna mention someone named Skinner in previous conversation, but when did- wait.

Couldn't be.

"Are- are you dating your boss?" Even saying it was all kinds of surreal for Mr. Waylon Smithers. On the other line, he could hear a guilty little snicker, which was all the conformation he needed.

_"I don't think it's going to be a problem though,"_ she added quickly. _"I really don't. We're keeping things quiet for now. But God forbid the super should ever find out." _She let out a dry little laugh, trying not to ponder that scenario in too much detail. The likelihood was that she and Seymour would both wind up jobless, a concept that made her shiver. Her little friend's mind was elsewhere, however.

Smithers was totally overtaken by jealousy. Not of Skinner for absorbing his one truly good friend, nor of Edna for having Skinner specifically, but of how easily she had accomplished the task that he himself had been agonizing over for more than twenty years. She had won her better over without even trying. Rationally, Waylon knew it wasn't even worth considering, but his emotions were somersaulting into one another.

The whole rest of the conversation was a bit of a blur. Smithers kept his increasingly negative thoughts under wraps and managed to excuse himself with fair quickness. "Yes... yes... I'll see you when I get back... yes... yes, all right... goodbye Edna."

The phone slipped back into its spot on the hook with a hollow click. Smithers stared blankly ahead, trying to reckon with the tumult of irrational fog settling in his brain.

He wanted to be happy for his friend, he really did, but the whole business only reminded him sorely that he was chasing after his cripplingly aged boss and probably would continue to do so until the elder man's fast approaching death. What made it ever worse was that:

A) He could probably have any other man he wanted, being fairly young, intelligent, and somewhat attractive

B) If he'd been a woman, the likelihood was that Burns would have married him ("her") a long time ago, simply because it was powerfully rare for any woman to show any romantic interest in him whatsoever.

Waylon was happy as a man, but in all honesty, he would have given that up in a heartbeat if it meant having Mr. Burns's affections. However, he knew that such a process would take years and much more money than he had presently. Not to mention the tremendous exertion it would take to make the change work smoothly. He would have to fake his own death and build a new identity around this foreign woman he'd created, because there was no way Burnsie would take a transgendered version of anybody, but especially not Smithers.

He knew that if he put enough effort into such a hair-brained scheme, he could make it work, but he never truly entertained it. It was dishonest, and furthermore far too _Vertigo_ for his tastes. He never really cared for that film.

With a heavy sigh, Smithers made his way into his ridiculously small kitchen. He didn't much feel like going to the museum anymore. He dug through his cabinets a little before fishing out a bowl, some microwaveable popcorn, and a flask of "Vagrant's Choice" bourbon. _'Time to get drunk in front of the TV,' _he decided. _'"Pardon My Zinger" is almost on.'_

Though he wasn't madly depressed (closer to startled, he thought, or moderately sad) he really didn't want to take the risk of hitting that spot on his spectrum of moods. T'is much better to dull one's senses with alcohol, crappy late night programing, and party snacks than to gamble with sobriety and have feelings. It really didn't take long for him to pass out in the warm glow of his television, face down in a bowl of cold popcorn.

The sound of a particularly loud car horn beeping came from just out the window and it shook Smithers from his sleep, causing bourbon and saliva scented popcorn to fly everywhere. With a little gasp, he glanced over at the nearest clock. _"Eight fifteen!"_ The cab he'd ordered days in advance had arrived, and his flight was leaving in half an hour. Meanwhile, he'd just woken up, moderately hung over mind you, and he knew he looked (and probably smelled) atrocious. He was unshaven, in wrinkled clothes with his bow-tie hanging undone on his shoulders. With no time to eat breakfast or practice proper grooming, Smithers merely grabbed the nearest jacket and flew out the door, never mind the fact that his eight year old house sitter would be greeted by a big mess in the living room and an open bottle of liquor. Hell, he didn't even have time to stick an apology note on the fridge.

As he slid into the back seat of the cab, the disheveled young man couldn't help but to sputter, "I didn't keep you waiting too long, did I?"

The driver didn't turn around or make eye contact, but he did reply as he tapped away some ashes from his cigar. "Nah, not too long. Where to next? Airport?"

"Burns Manor please," he corrected, shifting uncomfortably into his seat.

"You got it." The cabbie shifted gears, and the car shook into action.

From the instance that Mr. Burns had been picked up, the only words that seemed to have escaped his assistant's mouth were "yes sir," and "no sir." Only long after they'd boarded the plane and settled in their seats did Monty actually look at him. Needless to say, he was aghast at what he saw.

"Good heavens Smithers, you look atrocious!" Burns was a bit caught between following his exclamation up with a stiff appraisal or mild concern. As a result, the motivation behind his follow up had a rather confused pitch to it. "What ever happened to you?"

Waylon turned away from the window for the first time since he'd sat down, shaken from his thoughts. He was still rather upset with himself that he'd left his suitcase back in the condo, though that wasn't the biggest problem on his plate at the moment. "Oh, it's nothing sir. I just overslept a little." Technically, that was not a lie. Without realizing it, Smithers reached up and massaged his temples a bit, still headache-y from his hangover. Burns donned an equally scrutinizing and troubled look. "Yes, well, try to be more self-regulatory next time."

"Yes sir."

The older man nodded and tented his fingers. "Yes, very- egad Smithers, what is that fluid leaking from your eyes? Are you ill, boy?" Monty's expression was drowned in worry, but it was hard to tell if it was over Smithers's well-being or the chance that he might catch whatever sickness his assistant seemed to be carrying.

Waylon brought two fingers to his cheeks and realized that he'd been crying, but just a little bit. He was so wrapped up in his thoughts he hadn't even noticed. Fortunately for him, his employer had forgotten what crying was in relation to emotion for just a moment.

"Oh, it- it's nothing sir. It's just allergies."

Monty settled back in his chair a little, his sudden burst of apprehension subsiding. "I see."

That was a near miss. After a brief pause, Smithers could hear the sound of sniffling, but it wasn't his own. Fleetingly, he thought that his boss might be getting emotional as well, but before he could fully react, he heard that rasping hoary voice wonder out loud: "Smithers... Smithers, do you smell kettle-corn?"

Waylon turned his head and pressed a palm to his hot cheek, trying to mask his embarrassment. "N-no sir."


	3. Chapter 3: Prove My Love

Long after they'd finished their respective dinners, Seymour and Edna had tumbled to the floor in a mangled embrace, which would eventually evolve into a night spent cuddling and kissing on the latter's slightly lumpy linoleum kitchen floor. This was wildly different from what Edna was used to: the usual "get in, fuck her, get out, never call" method that most of her previous dates preferred to follow. This one was sweeter, tenderer, and much less sexual. In fact, their evening was totally devoid of sexy-anything, which was very odd but somehow refreshing. Seymour, on the other hand, had never had anything even remotely close to a girlfriend before. As a young kid, he was an orphan and a retrospectively self-described "no good street punk," so he had no time to chase such flights of fancy. When he enlisted in the army, there were no women about and he had no interest in men, so it never crossed his mind. By the time he'd settled in Springfield, he'd mellowed out and immersed himself in his work as a principal. Between that and his overall lack of experience with women, Skinner never bothered with love or really entertained the thought of it until just now. Their experiences were so different, yet somehow they fit together like hand in glove.

The evening had been perfect. A little off-beat, but perfect none the less. It was a simple candle-lit dinner between two very recently discovered kindred spirits. The new and strangely matched couple eventually fell asleep where they lay, Seymour flat on his back with the woman he guessed was now his girlfriend curled up on his chest. She faded into unconsciousness comforted by the sensation of two arms wrapped across her back, and for once she knew that the person they were attached to would still be there when she woke up.

When the new lovers did wake up that following Tuesday morning, actually, the day was just coming out of its infancy, drifting out of the "wee hours" and into the "somewhat tenable hours." While Edna was supported through the night by the softness of another warm human body, her partner's back spent the last six or eight hours pushed up against a hard, unforgiving floor. He woke up groaning at around five thirty in the morning. He felt a dull ache in his spine and longed to stretch it and assess the damage, but Edna still slept soundly, perched on his torso in a fetal ball. In some trying maneuver, Skinner managed to prop himself up on his elbows, and despite his best intentions, this slight shift caused Edna to stir. She made a few groggy noises stretched involuntarily, a bit like a waking cat, and blinked. Remembering where she was, she half-smiled and turned her chin up slightly. "Mphf, g'morning Seymour."

Despite the dimly throbbing pain he felt, her new beau couldn't help but smile. "Good morning Edna,"

He ruffled her hair under his palm and pulled himself into a full sitting position, causing Edna to slide seamlessly into his lap. Though they'd only been together for all of two days, they felt totally at ease with one another, and despite having been around the block more times than she could count, Edna couldn't remember the last time she'd had an honest to God sweetheart. Probably not since college. She didn't want to get too ahead of herself, but she had a really good feeling about this guy.

"We've got work soon." A softly droning voice shook her from her thoughts. Glancing up at the digital clock mounted on her stove, she realized that he was right. Principal Skinner was generally the first one to arrive at school, with the occasional exception of Groundskeeper Willie. Following soon after was the rest of the staff, and finally the children at nine. It was six-thirty now, giving Seymour a decent amount of time to reach his destination. Seeing as he and Edna were in the same place this morning, it seemed only logical that they should be carpooling.

Krabappel scooted onto the floor and pulled herself to her feet, leaning on the nearest counter for support. "Here, I'll get started on breakfast," she said, reaching for a pan. She wasn't entirely sure why she volunteered to cook, possibly for hospitality's sake. In earnest, she didn't know the first thing about cooking. She generally subsisted on cold cereal, miscellaneous produce, canned soup, and anything that cooked well in a toaster oven. That's why the next thing she heard was ever a relief.

"No, don't trouble yourself. You made dinner; I'll take care of breakfast." Seymour stood up as well and took the cookware from her hand, stroking Edna's fingers with his thumb as he did. "How do you feel about eggs Benedict?"

A genuinely sweet gesture. The last time a man had offered to cook for her- and Smithers absolutely did not count for obvious reasons- she had been a married woman. This boded well, very well indeed.

Edna drew a bit closer and gave a small laugh. "Seymour, you're spoiling me."

"Think nothing of it." he said, planting a kiss on her forehead. "The food will be ready faster than I can slash the art department's budget-" (so his sense of humor was hit-and-miss. That particular flaw was easily overlooked.) "-Why don't you run along and get ready for school? You wouldn't want to be marked down as 'tardy.'" He waggled his eyebrows ever so slightly at his own facetious remark.

Though she wasn't exactly sure what her boyfriend was insinuating, Edna did recognize this as an attempt to flirt, and she took no issue with that, playing along instantly.

"Whatever you say _principal."_ She tugged lightly on his loosely knotted tie as she passed by, and they both shared a bout of giggling as if either of them fully understood what they were really talking about.

Crossing from her impossibly small kitchen, through her impossibly small hallway and into her impossibly small bedroom, Mrs. Krabappel set out to prepare herself for yet another day of herding small children into a cramped classroom and trying to keep them sitting in one place long enough to cram some knowledge in through their ears. She dug around in her closet, pulling out the usual get up: knee-length green skirt, yellow blouse, green quarter-sleeve sweater.

God, it was dull. Had it always been that dull? Edna found herself displeased, and for the first time in years, she was going to do something about it. She felt radiant today, shouldn't she look radiant too?

_'Hmmm. Perhaps a little makeup wouldn't hurt. I know I have some lipstick around here somewhere...'_ She explored one of her lesser-used drawers, pushing some miscellaneous items around until she found what she was after: a tube of bubblegum colored gloss and a thin ascot of the same hue. Yes, that would do nicely indeed. Now all she had to do was apply it.

The finished product was, truth be told, not as horrendous as she predicted it would be. Edna didn't really care to dabble in cosmetics; she had no use for that sort of thing. Rather, she'd given up on that sort of thing. As she examined reflection in the mirror, making slight alterations insuring she looked her best, the generally dysphoric school marm noticed just how many things she'd given up on, just how little fun she had, just how miserable she all too often was. Especially over the last few weeks, she'd passed the time largely by reminding herself endlessly of her depression, and on the rare occasion that a distraction was offered, her first thought was always something akin to "Gee, I can't remember the last time I got to do that," followed by some slew of cynical inner-thoughts and jargon about how it probably wouldn't work out anyway.

_'Huh. What a life.'_

As a personal rule, Mrs. Krabappel really wasn't interested in putting all of her proverbial eggs in one basket, but maybe this relationship was what she needed to turn things around. After all, it felt good to be loved again.

When she re-entered the kitchen, Seymour was just finishing up with the breakfast he'd promised, and by the look on his face, it was clear to see that he noticed the woman's festive change in wardrobe, subtle as it was. "Edna, you look even more dazzling than usual," he said, stationing a plate of food on either end of the dining table.

She giggled to herself, pleased at his observation. "Oh Seymour, stop it."

Actually, seeing his girlfriend so nicely put together reminded him that he would likely benefit from a change of clothes. He simply was not the sort of man who wore the same article of clothing two days in a row, even though all of his outfits looked pretty much the same. It was more of a personal hygiene thing. As he took his seat at the table, Seymour made a mental note to make a quick stop at home to change, possibly into something a little more casual than usual_. 'Better check on Mother too, if time allows...'_ He wondered briefly just how his mother might react to Edna. She'd never had to deal with girlfriends before, but if he knew Agnes Skinner at all, he knew that she wasn't planning on starting any time soon. He looked up at Edna briefly, watching her cut her eggs into neat little squares. She glanced up, sensing eyes on her and smiled just so. Seymour couldn't help but to smile back.

_'Well, maybe Mother doesn't have to know just yet.'_


End file.
